


seventeen ain't so sweet

by kinestheticpariah



Series: Variations on Mormonstuck [5]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Comfort Sex, Cutting, Eating Disorders, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Mormonstuck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-21
Updated: 2013-01-21
Packaged: 2017-11-26 07:13:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/647959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kinestheticpariah/pseuds/kinestheticpariah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And you know this is wrong, so wrong,<br/>you’re probably taking advantage of her in some way,<br/>but you do care for her, probably more than you should,<br/>more than a 40-year-old man should care for his daughter’s best friend.<br/>And there’s no one here to judge you, but Roxy and yourself,<br/>and God, if he’s even real, which you’ve been doubting for quite some time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	seventeen ain't so sweet

Roxy Lalonde shows up on the doorstep one night,  
one cold, rainy night,  
soaked to the bones and shivering,  
eyes red and nose raw.  
  
Jane’s gone with your brother and John to Utah for the week; you stayed behind to take care of things at the bakery.   
You’re really not sure why Roxy is here,  
and you’re confused when she tells you  
she doesn’t care that Jane isn’t here,  
she wants to talk to you,  
to someone,  
to anyone,  
but especially to you.  
  
You start a fire in the fireplace,  
dig out some of Jane’s clothes,  
hand them to Roxy.  
She already knows where the bathroom is.  
She emerges in the white sweatpants,  
blue tank top and pink hoodie you gave her.  
You’ve heated up some milk on the stove,  
you scoop spoonfuls of hot cocoa powder into two mugs,  
top the rich chocolatey drink with whipped cream  
(homemade of course)  
and miniature chocolate chips.  
Milk chocolate,  
because Roxy likes those the best.  
  
You sit down on the couch in front of the fire,  
set the mugs on the coffee table,  
pat the space beside you.  
She’s standing a few feet away,  
at the bottom of the stairs,  
fiddling with her hands,  
nervous,  
and she crosses her arms over her chest  
as she comes to sit beside you  
and pick up her mug of cocoa.  
  
“Thank you,” she says,  
quietly,  
timidly.  
You nod and take a sip of your own cocoa.  
She looks at you funny,  
and then begins laughing hysterically.  
You raise an eyebrow,  
and she reaches forward,  
wipes some whipped cream off your nose,  
and you chuckle.  
  
Then her face falls,  
her smile falters,  
her eyes lose their sparkle,  
and she sets the mug on the table,  
curls up in on herself at the corner of the couch,  
brings her knees up to her chin,  
wraps her arms around herself,  
and begins to sob,  
little squeaks and gasps and sniffles.  
  
You set your own mug down,  
scoot a little closer but not too close,  
put a hand on her knee,  
cautiously.  
She looks up at you and just  
falls onto you,  
wraps arms around you,  
cries into your chest,  
grips the back of your shirt in tight fists,  
shakes and trembles as you stroke her hair and hold her close.  
  
And it’s just now,  
as you’re holding her slender frame in your arms,  
that she is so,  
so thin,  
thinner than you remember.  
And you can’t recall the last time  
she accepted more than a glass of water  
when she did homework at the cafe after school.  
  
She falls asleep that way,  
curled up into your chest,  
and you wind up carrying her up the stairs.  
She can’t be more than 120 pounds, you think.  
You pass Jane’s bedroom,   
and instead set her sleeping body  
on your own bed,  
tucking her into the sheets on one side of the large mattress,  
sitting against the pillow on the other side of the bed,  
picking up a book from your nightstand and reading it.  
  
In her sleep she migrates closer and closer to you,  
winds up with her head on your leg,  
thin arms wrapped around your torso,  
curled up into a little ball,  
holding onto you for dear life.  
  
An hour later she stirs,  
yawns,  
blinks slowly and meets your eyes   
as you set your book back down on the nightstand.  
She sits up, pulls the covers over her chest,  
and whispers,  
“everything is breaking.”  
  
You inch closer,  
wrap your arms around her,  
and prepare for sobs,  
but they don’t come.  
She just shakes her head  
at nothing or no one in particular,  
maybe at herself,  
and says,  
again,  
“everything is breaking.”  
  
“What do you mean, Roxy?” you ask,  
and she buries her face in your chest,  
clings tightly to you again,  
holds on to you as if you’re all she has,  
and you think to yourself that maybe you are.  
  
She mumbles,  
“Rose vanishes at night,  
Dirk’s always alone,  
Davey says daddy fucked him.”  
You blink a few times.  
“Your father is the bishop,” you say,  
and she hums an agreement,  
pulls away from you,  
“It’s ‘cause of that he can do whatever he wants to Davey,  
and no one’s gonna believe anyone but him.”  
She sniffles  
and a tear rolls down her cheek.  
“Dave’s in love with John,”  
she says,  
“loves him more than anything.  
I think they kissed a few times,  
might be dating secretly,  
but please don’t tell.  
Dad’s gonna hurt Davey,  
we don’t need dad hurting Davey.”  
  
She’s whispering hoarsely now,  
tears streaming down her flushed cheeks.  
“Daddy fucked Davey to teach him a lesson,  
he got mad because Davey loved John,  
even when they were little boys,  
he loved John,  
and that’s wrong,  
it’s against God and what God wants.  
Dad’s first wife cheated on him,  
with a girl.  
He found ‘em in bed together,  
got real mad,  
had her excommunicated.  
I think he’s mad,  
and feels betrayed.  
I think he’s jealous of John,  
that Davey cares for John more than anybody.”  
  
“Davey’s so sad...  
and so scared.  
But he’s so good at hiding it,  
so good at acting like things are okay.  
I think I am too,  
my problems are hidden too,  
all of ours are.”  
  
“Do you want to talk about your problems?”  
you offer.  
She looks up at you,  
a little scared.  
“I don’t want anyone to know,”  
she says.  
“If I tell you my problems,  
you gotta keep ‘em a secret,”  
she whispers,  
and you nod.  
  
She shrugs out of the jacket,  
shrugs out of the sweatpants,  
and you’re a little panicky as she pulls the sweatpants off her thin hips,  
lets them pool around her knees on the bed.  
But then you see thin white scars  
on her small thighs,  
smaller than you remember them being  
last time Jane and Roxy went swimming a few months ago.  
  
“I drink a lot,” she says.  
“Puke up a lot of the food I eat,  
if I eat anything.”  
You swallow a lump in your throat.  
She shrugs.  
“No one’s ever gonna love me,  
I’m a mess,  
a drunk, cut-up, fucked-up mess.”  
Her language shocks you only a little.  
  
“That isn’t true,” you say.  
She laughs bitterly.  
“Who would love me?”  
she asks you,  
and it’s a challenge to you  
as well as an insult to herself.  
  
And you lean forward,  
kiss her on the forehead,  
stroke her hair,  
meet her eyes.  
“I love you, Roxy,” you say.  
“We all do.  
We care about you v-”  
And you can’t speak anymore,  
because she’s grabbed you by your hair,  
pulled your face into hers,  
and she’s kissing you.  
It’s sloppy and distressed  
and you think to yourself,  
stop this,  
this is so wrong,  
she’s seventeen,  
but you can’t.  
  
You know she cares for you,  
maybe is even in love with you,  
or thinks she is.  
You’ve seen how she falls over herself  
when she’s here with Jane,  
you’ve seen her twirl her hair  
and bite her lip while watching you ice cakes in the cafe,  
probably not realizing she’s doing it.  
  
And you know this is wrong,  
so wrong,  
you’re probably taking advantage of her in some way,  
but you do care for her,  
probably more than you should,  
more than a 40-year-old man should care for his daughter’s best friend.  
And there’s no one here to judge you  
but Roxy  
and yourself  
and God, if he’s even real,  
which you’ve been doubting for quite some time,  
and after hearing about the things happening to Dave,  
you’re starting to doubt even more.  
  
Somehow you wind up shirtless,  
in your own sweatpants,  
her in a thin shirt and panties,  
probably a bra as well.  
And she’s kissing your neck,  
your shoulders,  
telling you she loves you,  
she loves you so much,  
she’s always loved you.  
  
And she’s so thin  
and fragile  
but so strong at the same time,  
pushing you down onto your back,  
kissing down your chest,  
hooking her thumbs into your sweatpants  
and pulling them off your legs.  
  
She gently strokes the erection straining against your briefs,  
through the thin fabric,  
pulls the tank top over her head.  
Your hands fly to her sides,  
to trace her protruding ribs,  
and you whisper,  
“Roxy...”  
and she starts crying,  
and says,  
“I just wanted to be pretty.”  
  
You sit up,  
cup her face in your hands,  
and say,  
“You already were. You always were.”  
  
And her bra comes undone,  
you cup her small breasts in your hands,  
give them gentle squeezes  
as she moans her approval.  
And you wind up kneeling beside her  
as she lays on her back with her legs parted,  
with a finger inside of her,  
surrounded by wet, tight heat,  
and you press soft kisses to her knee and thigh  
as you slip a second finger inside,  
and thrust  
and she gets wetter and wetter  
and louder  
and then you add a third finger,  
and rub her clit with your thumb,  
and she’s whispering,  
“fuck, fuck,  
please don’t stop,”  
and her muscles tighten  
and her body spasms  
and her toes curl  
and she claws at the sheets beneath her,  
tosses her head back onto the bed,  
squeaks and mumbles incoherently,  
until finally she brings her hand to yours,  
pushes your thumb away from her clit  
and you slide your fingers out of her  
and lean forward  
and pepper her neck and chest with soft kisses,  
cradling her in your arms,  
whispering,  
“I love you so much.”  
  
And once she’s recovered,  
she reaches down to your crotch,  
palms your erection,  
meets your eyes,  
whispers,  
“I need you. Please.”  
  
And somehow you wind up fumbling with a condom wrapper,  
nervously positioning yourself at her opening,  
press in as she hisses   
and wraps her legs around your waist  
and digs her nails into your back.  
She takes a few moments to get used to it,  
before laying back,  
relaxing on the pillows,  
gripping your biceps,  
and you pull out before thrusting in,  
slowly,  
softly,  
as gently as you can,  
and she whimpers  
and breathes heavily,  
and shivers underneath you.  
  
And Jane has told you  
that Roxy’s bragged about “getting laid”  
quite a few times,  
but when you look at the mix of fear  
and excitement  
in the eyes of the girl beneath you,  
you wonder if it wasn’t just for praise  
or attention.  
  
And it’s done a few minutes later,  
you remove the condom,  
tie it up,  
toss it into the trash can.  
Roxy is tired,  
a thin sheen of sweat on her forehead  
and neck and chest.  
You scoop her up again,  
pull back the covers,  
lay her down softly,  
tuck her in,  
lay down beside her,  
cradle her in your arms again.  
  
“Do you really love me?” she asks.  
And you nod,  
a bit nervous,  
because it honestly _terrifies_ you  
that you love her so much,  
because this is breaking so many rules,  
crossing so many lines.  
But you whisper,  
“Yes, I love you,”  
tuck a strand of hair behind her ear,  
kiss her head.  
  
You make yourself comfortable in her arms,  
her in yours,  
and decide you’ll worry about the consequences in the morning.


End file.
